Children of Exile Read Free

trusting.
    She’s five, I thought. She is innocent and trusting. That’s how Edwy could trick her without really even trying. And . . . so could I.
    I sighed and started to reach out to Cana, to pat her back reassuringly and tell her to run off and play with Bobo and the other little kids. But she wasn’t done talking.
    â€œOne of the Fred-daddies said maybe they’d raised us to be too trusting,” she said. “He said . . .” She rolled her eyes skyward, as if searching her memory for the exact words she’d overheard. “He said maybe they’d just been setting us up for disaster all along.”
    Disaster?
    The word hit me like a thunderbolt. For a moment I felt like I’d had the air knocked out of my lungs.
    Then I saw the way Cana peered at me, so anxiously. I didn’t know if she’d understood what she’d heard when she heard it, but she understood now.
    Probably because of the way I reacted.
    â€œI’m sure he was only joking,” I said quickly. “Exaggerating. To be silly. Or talking about some kind of game. You know how some kids act like it’s a disaster to get tagged out in Wiffle ball. Edwy does that.”
    â€œOh,” Cana said, wrinkling her nose. “I didn’t think of that.”
    She stood before me, a little girl in a moss-green dress. A little girl who was too smart to believe what I’d just said.
    â€œJust don’t eavesdrop anymore,” I said. “It’s too easy to hear something that might just confuse you. Or upset you. For no reason.”
    Cana still looked doubtful. I put my arm around her and led her toward the playground, toward the monkey bars where Bobo was playing.
    If any of the Freds glanced out from the town hall just then, would they see two innocent girls, the older one looking after the younger, like she was supposed to?
    Or would they see a whole park full of children headed for disaster?

CHAPTER THREE
    â€œLast bag,” Fred-mama said, easing my suitcase onto the back of the truck that was taking everyone’s belongings to the airport.
    â€œThanks,” the driver called back to her. He went on to the next house, where the Fred-parents of the toddler twins Peki and Meki started loading up.
    â€œThat was everything, wasn’t it?” Fred-mama asked me.
    â€œExcept for what you gave me to carry myself,” I said, turning around so she could see the little knapsack already strapped to my back. I’d peeked inside: It held a book to read on the plane, and lots of extra sandwiches and snacks. I’d seen Fred-mama pack a bulging knapsack for Bobo as well.
    â€œGood,” Fred-mama said. But she didn’t whirl around to head back inside to gather up Bobo and Fred-daddy, to get us all moving toward the airport. She just stood there, so I just stood there too.
    â€œMama,” I whispered, and it was the first time in my life I had ever addressed her that way.
    â€œ Fred- mama,” she corrected me, in that same gentle-but-firm tone she’d used with me my whole life. “I’m only your Fred-mama. Your real mama is waiting for you at home.”
    â€œ You’re my real mama,” I said. “You. Not anyone else.”
    It was like I had no choice: Either I had to spit out the angry words inside me or they would make me collapse; they would weigh me down and pin me to the ground, and I would never be able to get up.
    â€œHow can someone be a mama when she hasn’t seen me in twelve years?” I asked. “When she’s never even come to visit? How can you send Bobo and me—and all the other kids—back to a place we’ve never been? And expect us to call that strange place home?”
    â€œOh, honey,” Fred-mama said, wrapping her arms around me.
    I buried my face against her shoulder. Fred-mama was wearing a dress I’d once told her was my favorite: It was soft cotton with a pattern of lilac